University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Bedford and Lady Margaret Russel.
Lady Margaret.
Rest here, my gentle Father! nor again
Expose your wearied age and wasted spirits
To scenes of such dread influence to shake
Each fibre of a heart that feels like yours!—
I pray you rest with me!

Bedford.
My tender child!
Thanks to thy filial aid! my strength returns,
And my reviving soul has gather'd force
To bear the killing sight.—'Tis true, when first
I saw my mild and unoffending son,
Pride of my age! and England's dear resource
In these disastrous days! when I beheld
My blameless Russel at that bar arraign'd,
Where only guilt and infamy should stand;
When I beheld each servile judge support
A lawless jury basely fram'd against him,
Indignant anguish robb'd my wounded heart
Of vital energy: quick from the court
My hasty friends hurried my senseless frame,
To this our quiet home: but since, my daughter,
Thy kind endearing cares have now restor'd me,
I will resume my station by thy brother,
In these distressful moments:—to his side
Affection calls me, and paternal duty.

Lady Margaret.
Forgive me, that I dare to thwart your wish,
But from my generous brother I've receiv'd
A kind injunction to detain your age
From that afflicting scene. He has engag'd
To tell us, by repeated messengers,
Each petty circumstance that passes there.
Already from the number of his friends
He has selected one to bring us tidings:
His faithful Spencer comes.

Enter Spencer.
Bedford.
What from my Son?—
The sentence is not pass'd!

Spencer.
No, my dear lord.
England is yet unsullied with the stain
That must disgrace her, if the sword of Justice
Turns to the murderous dagger of Revenge,
To stab your virtuous son.—By his request
I come to soothe your anxious sufferings,
And to relate the process of a scene,
Where he conjures you to appear no more.

Bedford.
What perjur'd slaves have they suborn'd against him?
How far has truth been wrong'd, and law been tortur'd,
To frame those snares of legal death, in which
They labor to involve incautious virtue?
Have they not dealt most hardly with my son?

Spencer.
He has experienc'd subtle cruelty
From venal ruffians in the robes of justice;
But the base wrong his patient worth endures,
Is the dark soil which gives the diamond lustre.
When he requested aid for his defence,
His keen insidious foes, who strongly fear'd
Some upright advocate might save their victim,
Enjoin'd him to employ a servant's hand.
There rose indeed a servant at his side,
Most eager for the task; but O! what words
Can speak the fond surprize, and thrilling anguish,
Which shook the bosom of each sad spectator,
Who in that servant saw his lovely wife?
The crowd, with eyes bedimm'd by starting tears
Of tenderest admiration, gaz'd upon her,
And murmur'd kindest prayers, as they beheld
Connubial love, in that angelic form,
Thus firmly yielding unexpected succour
To virtue struggling in oppression's toils.

Bedford.
Most excellent of women! worthy offspring
Of my departed friend, the good Southampton!
If Tyranny prevails against thy husband,
How shall the wretched Bedford's feeble age
Support thy widow'd heart? I can no more
Than in strict fellowship of bitterest sorrow
Echo thy groans, and mourn our mutual loss.

Lady Margaret.
Do not, dear father, do not yield so soon
To comfortless despair!—we yet may hope
The radiant probity of Russel's life
Will dissipate each dark and dangerous cloud
That perjur'd Calumny can raise around him.
Remember all the candor of his mind!
Think how his temperature virtues have been prais'd
By Envy's self! how to the gaze of youth
His conduct has been held up as a book,
In which all English eyes may read their duty,
And learn the fairest path to spotless honour.

Spencer.
If abject lawyers, and a venal jury,
Should violate the sanctity of justice
By Russel's condemnation, still his merits
Are grav'd so deeply on the Nation's breast,
He stands so firm the idol of her love,
Oppression's self will fear to execute
The sentence of the prostituted law
Against a life so priz'd.

Bedford.
Alas! my friend,
When did a tyrant, like vindictive York,
(For 'tis the Duke who thirsts for Russel's blood)
When did a spirit of that sullen temper,
Impell'd by rancorous hate, by bigot rage,
And abject terror, when did such a spirit
Respect the virtue, Nature made its foe,
And treacherous Fortune gave it power to crush?
But tell me of the scene from whence you come!
Say! what has been alledg'd against my son?
I have been told the fierce and subtle Jefferies,
The Duke's base agent in this bloody business,
Relies upon the evidence of Howard,
As the sure instrument of Russel's death:
Unprincipled he is, and prone to utter
What interest and fear may bid him swear.
What has he said? or is he yet unsummon'd?

Spencer.
Before I left your son, the faithless Howard
Began his artful tale; but soon he falter'd,
With feign'd affliction of a dread event,
Which suddenly was rumour'd through the court,
And struck the throng'd assembly with such wonder,
Malice stood mute, and Persecution paus'd.
Fresh from the Tower the tidings came, that Essex,
From terrors of that bar, where Russel stood,
Had with rash violence rush'd out of life,
And stain'd his desperate hands in his own blood.

Bedford.
It cannot be! the firm, the gallant Essex
Could never end his being so ignobly;
And in the moment, when his generous soul
Felt only for his friend; his Russel's life
Yet wavering in the balance.

Spencer.
Such, my lord,
Such is the comment of all honest hearts
On this dark story.—Heaven reveal the murder,
And punish it, though in th'assassin's veins
The tainted stream of royal blood may flow!—
Soon as the rumour reach'd your son, he bade me
Attempt to penetrate this dark transaction,
And bring you the result of all I heard;
Adding, that in the instant of his doom,
He would dispatch to you the noble Cavendish
With tidings of his sentence.

Bedford.
Ah! my friend,
The fatal word, that ends his blessed life,
Has rung already in my tortur'd ear;
For I have seen the venal band suborn'd
To purchase, by the sacrifice of truth,
The blood of her mild champion. There's his guilt,
'Tis that his pure and patriotic zeal,
Guiding the voice of an enlighten'd senate,
Has labor'd to preserve the throne of England
From that blood-thirsty bigot, at whose feet
Her laws now lie, in hasty prostitution,
Slaves to a tyrant yet uncrown'd; converted
From sacred guards of slander'd innocence,
Into base engines of vindictive murder.

Lady Margaret.
Alas! my father, thou hast judg'd too well:
Thy dreadful presage is too soon confirm'd:
Behold the zealous Cavendish! he comes
With no quick step of joyous exultation;
But in his agitated gesture shews
A settled sorrow, and a fierce despair

Enter Cavendish.
I come, my lord, the wretched messenger
Of that accurst event, which my weak judgment,
Not reaching the extent of human baseness,
Had hastily pronounc'd beyond the line
Of possible injustice. All the crimes,
That coward Tyranny can wish committed,
Shall now have credit.—Russel is condemn'd.

Lady Margaret.
O mockery of justice!—Righteous Heaven!
Yet interpose to save him!

Bedford.
My kind friend,
Thou but relatest what a father's eye
Foresaw too clearly, when I view'd the jury,
So justly challeng'd by my innocent son,
Marshall'd without the warrantry of law
To ensnare his life.

Cavendish.
Eternal infamy
Fall on the base assassins! chiefly fall
On those superior ministers of evil,
The treacherous guardians of our trampled laws,
Who in the robes of Heaven's high delegates
Perform the work of hell! from prostrate Justice
Wrest her pure sword, to stain it with the blood
Of her most faithful votary!

Lady Margaret.
Yet try,
Try, my dear father, ere it prove too late,
By urgent intercessions to preserve him!
Your friends are many, and, howe'er inflam'd
By the vile arts of sanguinary York,
The king has still a tenderness of heart,
That may incline to spare my gentle brother.

Bedford.
Alas! my daughter, cherish not too much
A hope, whose cruel failure will impart
New poignancy to thy too keen affliction!
All the mild virtues, which to thy pure sense
Plead for thy brother's safety, in the ear
Of envious Hate and terrified Oppression
Cry loudly for his death.

Cavendish.
He shall not die.
What! though the blood-hound Jefferies has fasten'd
His fangs upon him! though the barbarous judges
Would make the temple of insulted Law
The slaughter-house of Tyranny!—there yet
Are means to turn the sharpen'd axe aside,
And shield the life of their devoted victim.

Bedford.
What would thy dauntless zeal?

Cavendish.
Your gentle son
Has such just credit with this injur'd nation,
For public virtue, and designs exempt
From every selfish bias of the soul,
Thousands would throw into extremest hazard
Their fortunes, and their being, to preserve
The dying martyr of defenceless freedom.
I hold it easy, in the very hour
Oppression means to triumph in his blood,
With some selected horsemen to o'erpower
The slaves who guard him, ere they reach the scaffold,
And bear him swiftly to a safe retreat.
Applauding millions will assist his rescue,
And bless the efforts of his brave deliverers!

Bedford.
No! Cavendish! by friendship's holy ties,
That prompt thy generous purpose, I conjure thee
To think of it no farther.

Cavendish.
What! my Lord,
Shall we look tamely on, and by connivance
Be made a party in this legal murder?

Bedford.
Dear ardent friend! there are disastrous times,
And this is one of them, when all the functions
True courage is allow'd to exercise,
Are resignation and a brave endurance.
My word is given to thy kind thoughtful friend,
To check all desperate sallies of affliction,
All, that the fond intemperance of love
Could hazard for his safety.

Cavendish.
Generous Russel!
By Heaven 'tis happier far to share thy death,
Than live, to see our wretched country robb'd
Of all her hopes in thy unequall'd virtue.

Bedford.
To me much happier!—to a father's heart
It would be consolation and delight
To perish with his child; but there are duties
More painful to sustain than the short struggle
That ends our mortal being:—and to us
These duties now belong—let us remember
The trust that he bequeaths!—his wife! his children!
'Tis ours to live for them. Remember too
His noble answer to the princely Monmouth,
Offering to share his prison and his fate!
Did he not say, it would embitter death
To have his friends die with him?

Cavendish.
O my Lord!
Your sorrow is of pure and heavenly temper;
Mine the fierce anguish of indignant frenzy:
Pray pardon it!

Bedford.
Pardon thee! gallant spirit!
Thou bright example of exalted friendship!
Thou hast my love, my fondest admiration;
In my just heart thou rankest with my children,
And art the pillar, now my Russel falls,
That my weak age must cling to for support.

Cavendish.
In duty, my dear Lord, though not in merit,
You may account me your's: and pitying Heaven
May yet, in mercy to a nation's prayers,
Spare to your virtuous age your worthier son:
I cannot bend my spirit to admit
His fate inevitable: gracious Powers!
Who watch o'er suffering virtue, who inspire
The prosperous deeds of chance-defying friendship,
Assist my lab'ring and distracted brain,
Whose faculties are on the rack to find
Expedients to preserve our country's pride,
The friend and champion of her faith and freedom,
From the base stroke of tyrannous revenge!

Bedford.
Vain are those anxious thoughts: the vigilant eye
Of keen Oppression will secure her victim.
The nerveless arm of childhood could as soon
Wrest from the tiger's gripe his bleeding prey,
As we by violence deliver Russel
From the vindictive York.

Cavendish
(after a pause).
I thank thee, Heaven!
The bright idea is, I feel, from thee:
And it has chas'd the darkness of despair
From my o'erclouded mind.

Bedford.
What means thy ardour?

Cavendish.
Good angels have suggested to my soul
A project yet to save him.

Bedford.
Name it! name it!

Cavendish.
Your pardon, my dear lord!—accept alone
This firm assurance, that my new design
Has nought of rash exertion to involve
A single life in danger! or if one,
It must be mine alone; and in this crisis,
How gladly shall I yield my life for his,
And die triumphant in the blest exchange!

[Exit.
Lady Margaret.
Brave Cavendish!—He's gone—Ye saints of heaven;
If friendship, like your own, deserves your care,
Go ever with him, and from all the perils,
That wait the noble self-neglecting spirit,
Protect him! and assist his godlike aim!
Preserve this matchless pair of gallant friends,
And let them shine the ornament of earth!

Bedford.
Thou pray'st in vain, dear child!—this dauntless friend,
Transcendent as he is in truth and honour,
Can nought avail us: he must prove the dupe
Of ardent passions and of sanguine virtue.
If there's a ray of glimmering hope, that yet
May faintly lead us through this night of horror,
It cannot rise from any bright endowments
In those we love, but rather from the vice,
The abject vice, that glares in our oppressors.
Our tyrants are necessitous, and thirst
For gold, as keenly as for innocent blood.
Kind fortune, haply for this great emergence,
Has made me master of no common wealth;
And this, with lucky art distributed
Among the needy minions of the king,
May purchase still our Russel's forfeit life.—
Come! my dear child, retire we to consult
On this our sole resource! Thou will not scruple
To meet, and to embrace a noble poverty,
If thy lost portion can redeem thy brother!

Lady Margaret.
Blest be thy happiest thought, my tender father!
All wealth, all good is center'd in his safety;
And, witness Heaven! my heart would freely bear
All the loath'd hardships of the houseless vagrant,
And think them blessings, if they aught conduc'd
To rescue Russel from a traitor's death.